


The Best Things In Life Aren't Things At All

by fairy911911



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe: FBI, Angst, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Partners to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairy911911/pseuds/fairy911911
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Mary_Twist: </p>
<p>
  <em>Of all the days to give him a new start, it had to be on Christmas Eve.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Under any normal circumstance, Jensen would have been thrilled to be back on the field. Well, not the field, per se - he was doing research for an active case - but fieldwork couldn’t be far behind. After all, he was one of their best agents, and if they finally trusted him again to be on important cases, in any form possible, then full redemption and reinstatement wasn’t too far away.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There were only two problems: the holiday and his partner.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Things In Life Aren't Things At All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetheartdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/gifts).



> Prompt: [Jensen and Misha] are both FBI agents who end up working on overtime on a case during Christmas holidays, alone on the whole floor. Between endless cups of coffee and conversations about the case that spiral into personal conversations, they end up kissing under the mistletoe. (I'd love for the case they're on to have parallels to their own lives, maybe it's even cutting really close to home for one of them.)
> 
> Merry Christmas, Mary_Twist!

6:07 pm

Of all the days to give him a new start, it had to be on Christmas Eve.

Under any normal circumstance, Jensen would have been thrilled to be back on the field. Well, not the field, per se - he was doing research for an active case - but fieldwork couldn’t be far behind. After all, he was one of their best agents, and if they finally trusted him again to be on important cases, in any form possible, then full redemption and reinstatement wasn’t too far away.

There were only two problems: the holiday and his partner.

It’s obvious that working on Christmas Eve would be a downside. It’s had been a long, tiresome year, which, frankly, Jensen just wanted to end. He would be more than happy to just go home now, close his eyes, and sleep until the ball drops on midnight in a week. But the Federal Bureau of Investigation sleeps for no one. Even on the night before Christmas.

Which is a pain in the ass. It’s not like Jensen had anyone waiting for him at home. But it’s the principle of the thing. He wanted to curl up next to fire, listen to some holiday songs, watch a classic movie, and not think about murders on Christmas for one year of his life. Instead he’s down in the archives searching for a needle in a haystack.

The other issue wasn’t as easily explained.

It’s not that he hated Agent Collins or anything. He doesn’t like him either, but that mainly stemmed from not knowing the guy. He showed up in the office about a month previous with no real backstory or introduction. Like Jensen he was doing paper work and filing, but, unlike Jensen, had no reason to be on probation. So he was probably a new hire straight out of training.

In fairness he shouldn’t be so hard on rookies. After all, everyone has to start somewhere, and it’s not as if all of them are bad agents. But the title “Agent” excites them. They get cocky, which leads to mistakes. The last thing he needed was to be tied down to a newbie as a _mentor_. He won’t be able to prove he’s ready for the field; he’ll just get stuck having to explain Collins’ mistakes.

He glanced over at Collins, who is still combing through filing cabinets of decade’s old information. Okay, so the man hasn’t done anything _yet_ , but that doesn’t mean he won’t royally screw up. It’s not like he’s been given the chance to. Being tied to an office desk really doesn’t allow for major, life-threatening mistakes - at least not the ones Jensen has made. But as far Jensen’s been able to tell he’s been perfectly decent at his job.

It’s possible he just never noticed anything, but with Collins it’s nearly impossible to ignore him. On his first day the agent walked out of the elevator in a powder blue blazer and socks with a pattern that bore a striking resemblance to bacon. The outfits didn’t stop there, as every day Collins had something ridiculous added to his attire: ugly argyle sweaters, ‘I Heart Justin Bieber’ tee shirts, or neon orange button downs. Not once had Jensen seen him in what could be considered normal work dress. Not even today. While it seemed better, with a blue and black zip up sweater and slacks, Jensen couldn’t help but look down at his feet and, sure enough, Collins was sporting bright red socks with Santa’s face on them.

His sense of dress wasn’t the only loud part of him. Somehow in the minimal weeks he had been working in headquarters, Collins had made friends with at least half the building. The others on their floor seemed to be constantly huddled around Collins’ desk, laughing at one of the many _hilarious_ stories he was telling. Jensen, to his annoyance, even found himself chuckling along back on the other side of the room. His whole presence took up the entire floor, and at this point their offices felt empty without him.

But the worst part of all of it was how _nice_ he was. Whenever someone needed assistance with a computer or help transporting files and supplies, he was always the first to volunteer. He makes sure Agent Spencer was fine when he would (consistently) trip over a garbage can or something and fall. On Fridays he brings donuts from this, admittedly amazing, hole-in-the-wall bakery near his apartment. He always made coffee if the pot was empty, and everyday he would bring a mug over for Jensen.

It didn’t take long after he was back from the accident for people to learn not to talk to Jensen. He didn’t, and still doesn’t, want people’s sympathy and disingenuous attempt at friendship. Collins was yet to get the memo. With the coffee - which Jensen quickly noted as an act only done for him - Agent Collins would begin an endeavor for small talk. It would range from “How’s the coffee? It’s a new brand,” to “I don’t pay attention to football, but I heard the game last night was exciting. What did you think?” to even the basic, painfully sincere “How are you doing?”

Jensen didn’t hate Collins because the man made it impossible to, which was just fucking infuriating. All he wanted was to be left alone and put back on the field, not down in the basement with the exasperatingly sweet rookie on level seven.

A groan came from across the room. Collins banged a filing cabinet shut and braced himself against it. Jensen couldn’t blame him. They had been out it for two hours now and nothing useful had come up. He ran a hand through his hair and turn towards Jensen. “Can you run the information by me again?”

Jensen sighed and leaned back in his chair. He flipped open the case file in front of him. “October twenty seventh: Jaime Baxter, age nineteen, studying pre-law at Boston University. Last seen leaving her final class of the day. Usually walks to her dorm and returns within 30 minutes of end of day.”

“Except this time she didn’t,” Collins interrupted.

Jensen nodded. “Her roommates got worried when she wasn’t home by eleven. Missing for a week before her body was found lying in the middle of Boston Public Gardens. Death by asphyxiation, bruises suggest it was done with hands - with time of death about 36 hours previous to discovery. No other marks on body before or after death.”

He paused, closing his eyes. “Then on the November thirteenth Alec Najjar went missing. Twenty-two. Went to Northeastern for business. Never even made it to any of his classes that morning. Week later his body was found at the park. Asphyxiation. December second: Mike Higashi, age 23. Harvard law. Like Jamie he disappeared after classes. Again, week later found dead from asphyxiation on park bench. Same place.”

“Which leads us to Alice Fischer,” Collins added.

Jensen nodded. “Age twenty. Went to,” he stopped himself, “goes to Emerson for physics.” It was possible she wasn’t dead yet. There was no need to think about her in the past. There was a chance she could still be saved. “Last seen four days ago after a Christmas party off campus. When she didn’t show up the next night her roommate called the police.

“Which means we have a serial killer on our hands. No relations, no set race or gender or income or even area of the city. Higashi is from San Francisco. Najjar’s immigrated here from Germany. The only things in common are currently attending a school in the Boston area and circumstances of death.”

He looked down at the file in front of him. On top of the papers sat a high school photo of Fischer. Her posed smile beamed up at him.

Collins pushed himself away from the cabinet. “It’s possible she’s not part of this.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not taking any chances, Collins.”

The man wrinkled his nose. “I’m just saying we shouldn’t discredit any connections that don’t involve her.” His eyes wondered around the dimly lit room crammed with shelves and tables bursting with old information. Collins pinched gaze landed on the four boxy computers that should have been updated over a decade ago. He made his way around Jensen’s table towards the wall the machines resided upon. “I’m gonna go back to looking at the family profiles. Maybe we missed something.”

He was answered with a grunt. This entire endeavor felt pointless. The hard copy files down here were the remnants of a time before computers. Most of it had already made its way onto the Bureau’s main digital database. There were only a few things deemed a non-priority and pushed away until someone remembered to upload them. Still, Jensen, in many respects, preferred the hard copies. There were notes missed by the catalogers penciled into the margins that could be the difference between justice and a cold case. And there was just something about holding the information in your hands. It had weight; it felt real.

He looked down at Alice’s photo. He hated cases like this.

“Are you okay?” Collins was staring at him was with big eyes. His body was ready to probably get up and console him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just get back to work,” he snapped. Collins raised an eyebrow, but did, thankfully, remained silent and eventually turned back to his work.

Jensen knew he was being a dick, but he didn’t need Agent Collins’ sympathy and concern. He already got enough of that, and there was no way he was gonna be pitied by a rookie.

He shook if off. This was just another case, and the key to solving it was in this room. He could feel it. And in a few short hours he would be on his way to getting his job back.

\----------

10:02pm

The letters on the page were beginning to swirl together. Jensen was sure he had been reading the same paragraph for a minute. He couldn’t even remember what is was about. Something to do with school records in the Boston area. Maybe these people were connected somehow. He couldn’t tell anymore.

About an hour ago he had made his way from the chair at the table to on metal top of the table itself. He wasn’t sure how he got to this point, but it seemed fine for his system: grab a folder from the pile next to him, attempt to read it while retaining any information, toss to the side when it became apparent it was pointless. They had been through everything - censuses, family backgrounds, police records from the past ten years. At this point Jensen was losing all hope of forwarding this case tonight. So much for this being his break.

He should have just left with the front desk security guard a few hours ago. Technically they weren’t supposed to be in the building one she left, but over the years the two of them had become good enough friends and trusted Jensen to lock up. This was probably a horrible decision on their part, but nothing ever happened during the few times he asked to stay behind.

They needed to finish up. When they had come down here it was snowing pretty heavily. He didn’t want the roads to close.

He looked over at Collins. The man was sitting in the corner, one of the archive’s ancient computers showing the database while his laptop was perched on his knee, open to his notes. His brow was pinched, and his hands were gripping the mouse in front of him.  The man looked about five seconds away from a mental breakdown.

“I can't stand this!” Collins slammed his fists on the keyboard in front of him. The screen flashed and produced a horrible blaring screech. His hands went back to his hair. “I know I've seen this before,” he groaned. “I know I have. I just...” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s in here, I know it.”

“What's standing out?” Jensen pushed himself off the table top. This was the first time all day they had anything to go off of, even if it was just a vague memory - a vague _feeling_ of a memory.

“The entire idea of a serial killer of random teenagers.  I know I've heard of it somewhere.”

Collins was about to implode. Without thinking Jensen put his hand on Collins’ shoulder in an attempt to steady him, if only slightly. “Hey, relax. Take a break. Just focus on remembering it. You good with that?”

Collins nodded. “Yeah. A break sounds good.” He stared at the stairwell. “There’s a vending machine on the first floor, right?” He hummed in confirmation. “I’m going to get a snack. Do you want anything?”

Jensen shook his head. “I'm good.”

Agent Collins gave him weird look again. All night he had been doing his best to subtly study Jensen. And it was always with that concerned look of his, the one that just infuriated Jensen because he didn't need Collin’s sympathy and concern. He was fine, and Agent Collins believing that or not didn’t make a difference. It was just annoying as fuck.

“Are you sure?” the man asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Collins, I’m fine.” It probably came out a little harsher than he planned and Collins, however annoying Jensen might think he was being (which he really wasn’t), didn’t actually deserve it.

Collins’ featured were schooled as he nodded and made his way upstairs, but Jensen could see the flash of confusion and disappointment. He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. Why was he such an asshole? The only real interactions they had in the past few hours were clarifying information, grabbing files for each other, and Collins periodically trying to make small talk. He wasn’t even really prying or being obnoxious, and he was so nice and polite about it and seemed like he actually cared about how he was feeling. And it wasn’t as if Jensen was teaching him how to do the work. Collins was surging ahead with the research and was just as determined, if not possibly more, to find the smoking gun.

But he was still a rookie. Eventually Collins was gonna make a mistake. And Jensen was gonna pay the price. One screw up and any chance at returning to normalcy was doomed.

There was a part of him, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit, that was scared. Not only losing his chance, but also losing a partner. Of losing a friend. Jared had moved on from him. The kid he trained was gone. No, he couldn’t risk losing someone he cared about, so it was just easier to not care.

A resolution had to be made: he had to stop being a dick to Collins, but they couldn’t be friends. No matter how sweet or funny or hardworking (or hot, but Jensen wasn’t _ever_ gonna admit that) he couldn’t run the risk of being hurt.

“Uh, Ackles?” Collins was at the base of the steps. His entire body was tense, his eyes were wide and focused, and the corners of his mouth were pulling down. “We have a problem.”

“What?”

Collins gulped. “We’re snowed in.”

\----------

10:24 pm

“Hey, Jared. You guys are probably busy doing something fun right now. Man, you guys lucked out. I hear it’s like in the sixties. While we’re freezing our asses off.”

Jensen shifted his phone to the other ear. He was deeply regretting ever picking up the phone. Jared was with his family and absolutely did _not_ need to hear from him.

“I guess this is your first Christmas without really having to worry. Good for you. You better be enjoying it.” He laughed softly, just under his breath and so quietly he wasn’t sure if the receiver would pick it up. “I guess I’m calling to wish you a merry Christmas early. You might not be able to reach me for a while. An agent-”

Jensen stopped himself short. Jared knew everybody here. It would be utterly pointless to try to brush off who Collins was or his status. Jared would eventually ask.

“My new partner... uh, yeah...” How the fuck was he supposed to tell his ex-partner he was assigned a new one? He knew Jared would care, maybe a little too much, but couldn’t possible discern if the reaction would be negative or positive. “He’s cool, you know? Anyway, we got ourselves into a situation.

“We’re fine,” he hurriedly assured. Jensen didn’t need Jared to worry about him as well. Although, he knew Jared probably cared more than the entire FBI combined; most of the time he loved it, but at others Jensen just tolerated him doing it quietly. “It’s just a delay, but I don’t have my charger and this thing’s gonna die in a second. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I might not be home until tomorrow.”

He shifted again. “So, merry early Christmas... you’d probably just tell me to say Christmas Eve and laugh at me.” He snorted. “Whatever. Say hi to Gen and Thomas for me. Bye, Jar.”

Jensen pressed a little too hard on the ‘end call’ button. Why was it that the only person he wanted to talk to was half a continent away?

It wasn’t as if they didn’t call each other or Skype. He didn’t think Jared would ever let that happen completely - once Jared declared you a friend you would never escape. But they weren’t together every day: working together, joking together, and practically living together. Logically, Jensen knew that with the move this would happen. That didn’t mean he was prepared for the halted conversations and declining number of interactions.

Jensen shook himself out of it. Keep acting like this and people would continue asking if he was _okay_. He rolled his eyes. He needed to keep going forward.

The heavy clunk of metal stairs, along with the semi-defeated sigh that accompanied it, announced Agent Collins’ return.

“I just got off the phone with Road Maintenance.”

Jensen cocked an eyebrow. “You can do that?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “You just have to know how to go through the right people.”

He tried not to gape at Collins. He wasn’t calling the man a liar, but Jensen had been working for the FBI for nearly eight years and never had he figured out how to do that. Where the fuck did this guy come from?

“Anyway,” Collins continued as he moved towards the center table, “they said they’re already working on clearing a lot of roads. And because it’s only the two of us and no one is in any danger, they decided we’re a low-priority case and would be handled after the major roadways.”

“So, how long is that gonna take?”

On an exhale Collins collapsed into a chair. “I don’t know. Probably late - past midnight.”

Jensen let out a huff. “At least it’s tonight.”

Collins hummed in agreement.

A long, stagnant silence fell over them, leaving Jensen only with his thoughts. His vision leisurely focused on the table leg closest to him. This was the perfect time to apologize about being a dick, or at the very least imply his regrets and the goal to adjust his behavior. But for some reason his mouth wouldn’t work.

He could hear Collins fidgeting at the table. At least he was just as uncomfortable.

Finally he broke the silence. “Did you make any headway with the case?” Well, at least it was something, despite Collin’s lack of understanding how much he suddenly _didn’t_ want to talk about it.

“Nothing new.” When Collins left he was slowly leafing through useless files. Eventually he couldn’t read anything new and ended up calling Jared. He shouldn’t have stopped, he knew that - the public’s safety was depending on this, he was depending on this - but after over 6 hours in a basement with absolutely nothing to show for their work his body was ready to quit. “How about you? Remember anything else?”

Collins snorted. “I wish.”

Jensen studied the other man: equally as worn down and a face pinched in enough frustration and disappointment that it was clear he was beating himself up about it. Jensen guessed it was as good a time as any to make amends. He tried giving a friendly smile to the agent. It didn’t get a response - good or bad - back.

“Don’t worry, Collins. We’ve got time.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

It took him a moment to realize the man was referring to ‘Collins,’ which meant he could only stare dumbly at him. “It’s your name?” It came out closer to a confused question than answer.

“I asked everyone to call me Misha.”

“ _Misha_?” His face scrunched at the foreign sound.

“My name.”

“Well, I’ve made it pretty clear I hate talking to people, but it seems neither of us got the memo.” He honestly didn’t mean for it to come out harshly. It was supposed to be more of a joke, but Jensen could hear every word being spat out. Misha’s body froze, and his jaw locked with the sheer amount of tension it was holding. But Jensen couldn’t shut up. What the fuck was wrong with him? “Really love it, by the way. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t been calling me Ackles for the past month.”

“You never gave your first name.” The reply slowed Jensen down slightly. It was low and harsh sounding. The man’s eyes were hardened and cool. His hands were clenched, the fingertips digging into the palms, but the rest of his body was motionless. He had never seen Misha actually angry before. A part of him was, admittedly, satisfied that after a long year of feeling shitty and now being snowed in after a day of getting shit done he was able to get a reaction out of _somebody_. The other, more reasonable part was guilty and terrified.

“I don't like to advertise it.” It was still cool, but more defensive than confrontational.

“Did your old partner call you by your last name, too? Ackles-”

“It’s Jensen,” he interrupted.

They were quiet for a moment. Then, for the first time that day, Misha gave a real smile: the kind that pulled the corners of his mouth so high you could see the gums while crinkling the eyes and scrunching the nose. It was the kind Jensen refused to accept just how much he liked. “And you make fun of my name,” he snickered.

Jensen did _not_ squawk. “It’s a nice name.”

“Whatever you say, _Jen_.”

He was full on laughing now, cackling even. And, man, was it infectious. Jensen desperately fought the urge to crack a smile and join in. He let out an indignant huff with a roll of his eyes; it was more for show than he would like to let on. “This is what I get for working with rookies again,” he grumbled, not truly angry.

That got Misha to stop. His jaw went slightly slack, his brow furrowed, and he slowly straightened himself from the hunched over position of laughter he had just occupied. Jensen couldn’t stand the look in Misha’s eyes. It was like the man just realized Jensen wasn’t ever let in on the joke; it was like something just clicked in Misha’s head and the whole world finally became clear. What had he said?

A silent “oh” slipped from Misha’s lips. His eyes changed again, and now where once there was confusion, only concern and pity remained. No. Not this again. Not this from somebody who was just laughing with him. Jensen couldn’t handle this anymore.

“Don’t give me that look,” Jensen demanded. But even then his voice was tired, frustrated, and desperate. What had come out of his mouth was nothing more than a plea. “I am so fucking sick of everybody treating me like I’m broken or ready to break!”

The words were stuck in Misha’s throat, only for a moment. The air was so thick and suffocating Jensen couldn’t breathe.

“Jensen,” Misha said slowly. His voice was soft, just above a whisper, and he had to strain to hear the man. “Before D.C. I had worked in the FBI Chicago branch for over ten years.” Jensen could feel his brain short-circuiting. No, that couldn’t be right. Misha was new. Misha was his trainee. Misha was his test. He had to be. “Your job isn’t to look after me. It’s actually kind of the opposite.”

That’s when the lights went out.

\----------

10:49 pm

“I found some flashlights.”

Jensen handed a few of the many he had found to Misha, who accepted them hesitantly and silently. They hadn’t discussed what he had said before the blackout. It would have been hard to. The basement was pitch black without the overhead institutional lighting. It had been a few minutes of stumbling in the dark with only their phone flashlights to guide them. It was an unfortunate discovery that, because it was underground, the basement was warmer than any of the office levels. Darkness or not, he refused to let it all end with freezing to death in his office building.

He plopped the cardboard on the metal table. At least the records room had emergency supplies. This must have happened at least a few times if they had a box of twenty or so flashlights lying around. A few had dead batteries, but the rest were good enough to place around a small section of the room (it was silently decided that section would be the table and computer area) and cast scatters of dim orange-yellow beams. It was better than nothing.

At the bottom of the box was a blanket: slightly worn but good enough. Without thinking too much about it, Jensen tossed it to Misha, instead electing to wrap himself in his snow jacket. He parked himself on the concrete floor against the plastered brick wall. The floor was bitterly cold. He was gonna freeze his ass off. But he hadn’t seen Misha’s coat anywhere in the vicinity of their lit corner.

It was difficult to tell in the faint light it Misha really did react to the gesture with an unimpressed eyebrow raise, but instead of wrapping it around himself, he laid it down and sat to one side of it. He patted the open half. When Jensen still didn’t move he rolled his eyes (probably - it was hard to tell).

“I know you’re cold. Get your ass over here.”

“You’re gonna regret this.”

“Just do it.”

Jensen let out a defeated sigh, but he did crawl over. “Fine, but when you start complaining about the cold don’t blame me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He could feel Misha’s warmth radiating next to him, a stark contrast to the chill on his left side. Admittedly, it was nice.

“So,” he began, doing his best to be nonchalant. “10 years?”

“More. Getting close to fifteen years.” He studied Jensen, raking over him with something he could only describe as indignant disbelief. “You really thought I was new at this?”

“Well, what was I supposed to think?”

“I’m older than you and clearly know what I’m doing. Don’t bullshit me.”

He held Misha’s gaze for a moment, desperately trying to hold on to any dignity he had left. Eventually he gave up and cast his eyes to the concrete below him.

“I haven’t had a case in months and I really thought they - you know, higher ups – they had given up on me.” He didn’t dare check Misha’s reaction. He didn’t think he could handle it. “So when they assigned me you and put us on this case ... its just research, I get it, but I’m getting another chance. And new agents will get mentors and follow them around on cases.” He stopped himself before it got too far. He could feel the bitterness creeping into this voice. He deflected it with a shrug. “It made sense.”

He brushed off a piece of lint from the blanket. “So why are you here, Mish?”

He could feel Misha shift beside him. “Well,” the man breathed out. “I was very content with my job in Chicago with my nice house and my nice familiarity with what I was doing. Then I got a notice that I was being transferred to D.C. My superior framed it as a kind of promotion.” He shrugged. “I guess it is.

“Anyway, I was told that I had been nominated for this position because of my personality and ability to basic work with basically anybody. It’s a nice little talent. She then went on to explain my new job, which was to partner with one of D.C.’s top agents.” Jensen’s head whipped around to face Misha. He expected some kind of sarcasm or humor in his face, but his eyes reflected complete sincerity. “Apparently he had experienced some trauma a few months back and had emotionally and socially shut down. They were hoping I could get him back on his feet.”

He tilted his head and looked expectantly at Jensen. “How am I doing so far?”

“You could have told me,” Jensen said flatly.

Misha shook his head. “Didn’t want me too. They figured you’d react better if we had _developed a natural connection before working side by side._ ” He snorted. “You know, technically I could be fired for telling you this.”

Jensen brought his right hand solemnly to his chest. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“It better because if I go down, I’m taking you with me, Partner.” He studied Jensen again. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”

He shrugged. “Nah. I think I’m just redirecting my anger.”

“Still, better for me.”

They lapsed into silence again. It wasn’t too comfortable, but in a way it was content. Satisfying and easy.

Misha was the one to break it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jensen wished he could deflect the question, but Misha was smarter than that; he wished he could play dumb, but Misha probably thought he was smarter than that.

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“It’s kind of my job to hear it.”

“Fine. I don’t want to talk about.”

“Well, we’ve got nothing else better to do while sitting here.”

He turned away from Misha, and, yes, he was being childish and it probably _was_ his partner’s business, but he had gotten through seven months without talking about it and there was no need to change that.

Misha sighed. “I get it, you know. No one likes digging up bad shit. I should know more than anyone. But trying not to recognize it as something is the very _definition_ of not getting past it. You want to get back out there? Great, but you need to let go and move on.” He paused. “And it sounds clichéd, but you might actually feel better. At least lighter. People do have the tendency to want their shit to be the most important and legitimate thing focused on.”

Jensen still didn’t give him a reaction. And he wanted to. At his core he knew Misha was right, but at this point the event - or _trauma_ as someone of importance had called it - was too stupid to explain after building it up so much. After a moment Misha spoke up again.

“How about this: you tell me what happened, and I’ll talk about something shitty I hate bringing up. Deal?”

He turned the offer over and over in his head. Jensen didn’t move, didn’t make any noise expect his labored breaths, but in the end he spoke.

“Jared was my partner, my first and only partner, for seven years. We were both new and quickly got paired together. And I don’t regret a day of it. He was my best friend - practically my brother. Something about us, I don’t know what, but we just instantly ... worked. Our personalities meshed. Our skill sets worked off each other. Same humor; same drive. At one point we even lived together. I was best man at his wedding.

“Then last spring we became the mentor to this new kid: straight out of training, couldn’t be older than twenty three. Nice, smart, and ready to work. Always wanted to help, but would get too excited about helping.” Jensen let out a long sigh and turned to Misha. “Which was the problem.

“In May Jared, the kid, and I were leading a drug bust. Standard stuff. We busted down the door just as we saw the guy climb out the window. He was on the third floor, so probably going to his car to try to make a get away. I run out the way we came to get our car and try to catch him. Jared and the kid aren’t far behind. I can see him pulling onto to street. Jared and I jump into our car. But instead of going in with us, the kid goes back to his car and makes off in a completely different direction. I’m pissed. I focus on driving while Jared gets him on the phone. Kid says he’s got a plan to cut him off with _short cut_. I call it for what it was: bullshit. But he’s so sure of himself and there’s nothing I can do about it now. Jared takes the phone off of speaker so he can’t hear me screaming at him. Because now he’s gonna do something stupid and it’s gonna be my fault and my responsibility to fix.”

His breaths were becoming shallower. “Anyway, I’m getting catching up on the dealer. Jared’s still talking this kid through his stupid plan. Eventually I get right behind the perp. I can here the kid through the speakers. He’s excited and shouting. He says he’s on Yuma street. Jared says we’re heading south on 47th about to pass Yuma. Kid says he’s right there as well and he’s gonna block the intersection.

The air was getting caught in his lungs. He needed to breathe.

“Dealer got through the intersection, and a car smashed into my passenger side.”

He was tired and bitter, and he couldn’t stop it from bleeding through as he tried to breathe. “I got a concussion, broken leg, sprained wrist (both on my right side), and three bruised ribs. They wouldn’t even let me into the Hoover building for six weeks. But I got it easy. Jared punctured a lung, which led to internal bleeding. I don’t know how many bone fractures: four, maybe five. Not to mention swelling in the brain. If he hadn’t already gone into a coma they would have had to put him in one. For a week I didn’t know if my brother was gonna wake up.”

He didn’t realize he was digging his fingernails into his thigh until Misha placed his hand over his own. There probably wasn’t a single muscle in his body that hadn’t tensed. Misha was rubbing patterns onto the back of his hand. I only helped marginally, but Jensen couldn’t have needed it more.

“Of course the kid’s comparatively fine. Arm in a sling and a few stitches. That was it. Course he was fired.”

“Is Jared...?” Misha trailed off, his gaze soft.

“He’s fine.” Jensen remembered the night Gen had called him - three a.m. or something, to tell him Jared had come to. Rushed to the hospital as best he could with busted up limbs, and when he got there all the bastard could do was complain about how much hospital food he was gonna have to eat. A small smile formed on Jensen’s mouth at the memory. “He was stuck in a hospital bed, then his own bed, for a while, but he made it.

“But Jared and Gen - his wife - had just started a family and had an infant, only a few months old. Jared couldn’t risk this happening again. Not with a kid.” He took a deep breath. “So he quit. Gen got a transfer from her job and they moved down to Austin as soon as Jared was able to travel.”

“And you’ve been alone since,” Misha finished. Jensen could only shrug in response. He knew Misha had connected the dots as to why he had been an asshole while thinking the man was a rookie, but thankfully he didn’t say anything.

“So...” Jensen trailed off. For the first time in a while he could feel himself take a long, deep breath. He didn’t feel good; he felt like shit, but a different kind of shitty than before and somehow slightly better. It was hard to explain.

“I was homeless.”

Jensen froze at the confession. For the first time during the whole conversation Misha looked away from him.

“Really?”

The man nodded. “When I was a kid. My mom and Dad split up when I was young. We were on welfare, and she had a hard time paying rent. Occasionally we were evicted. Me, my mom, and my brother were on the street for a while.” Jensen could hear Misha’s breathing become shallower. “We bounced around homeless shelters. Often we would just stay in my mom’s car.” His fingers twitched against his knee. “I remember one time I spent the night in jail with my mom. I think it was because she couldn’t pay a traffic ticket.” He sighed. “My brother doesn’t really remember it, thank God. But we don’t ever really talk about it.”

“I’m so sorry.” Jensen couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Misha shrugged. “It’s fine. My mom got back on her feet. She got a job, we got a house.” He paused for a moment and smiled. “Although that did burn down when I was in high school.”

Jensen’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Seriously?”

The man _laughed_ a little. “Yeah, but we got past it.”

He was at a loss for words. The fuck was this guy doing. “Honestly, why aren’t you working some office job? I mean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had enough, what, _excitement_ for a lifetime.”

“Well it’s not about the thrill of the risk, if that’s what you’re implying.” He leaned a little farther back. “I’m doing this to help people. My mom had nothing for a while, but she’s one of the most caring people I know. I mean, now she owns this center that houses people and helps stimulate creativity. I just wanted to do some good like her.”

“And the FBI was your first choice.”

“Actually I was going to be a politician.”

Jensen couldn’t help it. He doubled over, bursting with laughter. He still couldn’t breathe, but now it was for an entirely different reason.

Misha snorted. “I can see you’re taking that well.”

He glanced down at Misha’s Santa socks, trying to picture them fitting in during a session in congress. He tried to imagine them on the feet of the president. It just made him laugh harder.

“There’s absolutely _no_ way you could be a politician.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I probably should have figured that out in college.”

“What did change your mind?”

“I met politicians.”

Jensen doubled over again. He had to brace himself on Misha’s leg. Both of them were laughing hysterically in the dark.

“I’m serious,” he choked out between cackles. “I interned at the capitol for _nine months_. It was the ninth layer of hell.”

“Yeah. It’s congress. What did you expect?”

“Something decent and productive.”

Jensen desperately tried to calm himself. “So that’s when you decided to become an agent?”

“Well I still wanted to help people. It was either that, law school, or marry rich.”

“Too bad. You would’ve made a cute trophy husband.” Misha lightly shoved him for that, but there was no way of hiding the beaming smile on his face.

“Asshole.”

“Better get used to it.”

Misha shook his head. “No way. If I’m the asshole, and you’re the asshole, then who's going to be the good cop?”

“I’m pretty sure we can work out a timeshare thing, Mish.” Jensen should be worried. He shouldn’t be laughing and talking about keeping his partner. But he honestly couldn’t think of working with anyone better.

“Well, I guess I should be thanking your mom, then.” Misha gave him a funny look. “I mean, she’s the one who got you here.”

Misha’s smile softened. “Yeah. If she hadn’t pushed so hard when I was in school I don’t know...”

He trailed off. His eyes were staring into space, but Jensen could tell his brain was firing rapidly.

“Mish?” The man got up, grabbed a flashlight, and searched around through the filing cabinets. His movements were quick and direct. “Misha?”

“I just remembered it. Something like this happened in the early nineties, when I was in high school.” He yanked open a drawer and flipped through the folders. “Someone was killing off college students in the area as well. At least six were dead. I wasn’t in college yet, but I was close. One of the reason my mom pushed me to go to school in Chicago.”

“You were from Boston?”

Misha nodded as he slammed the cabinet shut and pulled open another. “If I remember correctly, they did capture the perp-”

“So we may be dealing with a copycat killer,” Jensen finished.

“And we may be able to find what connects the vics and where he’ll strike next.” He moved onto a new drawer. “Come on, help me look.”

Jensen grabbed a flashlight and moved on over to the dark. At least they were finally getting somewhere.

\----------

11:35 pm

In 1991 Mark Astroff had chosen a group of friends has his next victims. They had been high school friends and had all gone off to colleges in Boston. There was no relation between murderer and victims - only those by chance and circumstance. He got to them one by one, all disappearing for a week, all dying from asphyxiation, all having their bodies be displayed in a public drop off. Astroff was caught after seven people - kids really - had been killed. He was charged with two life sentences in state prison.

The case file was huge, but what had struck Jensen was the note about where Astroff had confessed to finding the victims: a popular club in the heart of downtown Boston.

“I’ll bet you anything that our five were at that club together one night.”

Misha nodded. “When the power works we can check the digital archives, but, yeah, you’re probably right. I guess are guy mistook them as friends.”

“Or they really _were_ there together, which would then beg the question how did they know each other?”

“And what were they doing?” He closed the case file. “This is getting interesting.”

The man smiled at Jensen, and he tried to smile back, he really tried, but he couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense. He should be ecstatic. They just discovered a huge lead that would probably crack the case wide open. He proved he could work with someone again, and honestly he was starting to get excited at the prospect of working with Misha everyday. The guy was funny and sarcastic, good at his job, and proved he would put up with his shit to the right extent.

But even in the dark he could see Misha shaking in the cold room. They were basically stuck in a pitch-black basement on Christmas Eve. It really couldn’t get any more depressing than that. God he missed his apartment.

“Are you okay?”

Jensen dropped back onto the blanket. “Yeah, it’s just that ... this is gonna be a pretty lousy Christmas.”

“I don’t know about that,” Misha said. Jensen shot him a doubtful look. “I mean, I was planning on spending the day alone in a small apartment I hate. So this is kind of better for me.” He ended the sentence with one of the shyest smiles Jensen had ever seen, which honestly just through him for a loop. “What were you planning on doing, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. He did know. “Start a fire, watch a movie, blast Christmas songs on the radio for twenty four hours. You know, the drill.”

Misha studied him for a minute, not even really blinking. Jensen couldn’t read his face, and it was getting disconcerting. But his body didn’t want to move from underneath Misha’s gaze. Finally, Misha got up and moved towards the metal table, and before Jensen could even ask what was going on, he pushed the table on it’s side.

Jensen shouted a “What the fuck?” over the defending clank of heavy steel on cement. Misha ignored him, turning the table with a screech so that the top faced them.

“Misha?”

“Just hold on.” He grabbed the flashlight out of Jensen’s hands and placed it in front of the table. Every other flashlight went to down on the floor, hitting the table at different directions from different lengths away. The chrome surface reflected the light enough that the rays softly bounced off and shone around their side of the room.

Misha stood proudly next to his creation, his beaming smile meeting Jensen’s blank stare. “Your roaring fire.”

He didn’t really want to say it was pathetic _out loud_ , so the best Jensen could settle for was, “Really?”

Misha was clearly not impressed with that answer. “It was a little short notice. I didn’t know the electrical system was going to go out or any of the snow was going to happen. And it’s not like they would appreciate me having fire next to a bunch of important _paper_ documents. And honestly, you didn’t give me twenty four hours notice on this gift so it’s really not my fault, and-”

He cut himself off when Jensen’s laughter became louder than his own voice. Misha rolled his eyes as he grabbed his laptop off the computer desk. “Just scooch over you ungrateful bitch.”

Jensen gave him a shit-eating grin, but complied. Once situated, Misha opened his computer and glanced at the power supply: over 50%.

“So, which movie did you have in mind?”

\----------

12:03 am

_“I never thought it was such a bad little tree ... It's not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love.”_

_“Charlie Brown is a blockhead, but he did get a nice tree.”_

“I’m starting to see why this is your favorite Christmas special,” Misha mumbled into his shoulder. Jensen hummed in response. “It’s sweet and satisfying, but has a little too much bland seriousness. Just like you.”

Jensen shoved him, or as best he could. Misha practically using Jensen as a support didn’t really give him the best angle. “Just shut up and finish the movie.”

_“What's going on, here?”_

_“Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”_

As the first notes of _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing_ came through Misha’s speakers, Jensen leaned back to look at Misha, who clearly was not impressed with the body shifting underneath him.

“I was comfortable.”

“It’s a good movie, with good characters and a good message. Admit it.”

“I know, Jen. I watch it every year. I love it.”

Misha’s bright eyes gazed up into his. It was painfully clear Misha was freezing, so he didn’t mind the man burrowing into his side. It was actually, well, nice. Everything was still and quiet except the Christmas carol being sung in the background.

That was Misha pulled away from him.

“ _Joyful, all ye nations rise!_ ”

“What are you doing?” His voice was loud and horribly out of tune, but he had the biggest smile on his face.

“ _Join the triumph of the skies!_ Come on, Jensen. You’re the one who said you wanted to listen to Christmas music.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, but he couldn’t hide the smile on his face. Misha was ridiculous, but he was doing this for him. Misha continued on with the peanuts gang, elbowing him until he finally joined in.

“ _-Angels sing! Glory is to the newborn king!_ ” Both belted the last note, which rapidly dissolved into actual _giggling_.

“Okay,” Misha said after catching his breath, “you pick one.”

“What?”

“It’s something my family did when I was a kid. One person would pick a Christmas song and we’d all sing it. Next person would pick a song and we’d all sing it.” He waved his hands in some non-descript gesture as if it explained everything perfectly. “Come on, it’s your turn.”

Jensen paused the movie and glared at Misha before turning around and starting the first song he could think of. “ _Have yourself a merry little Christmas: let your heart be light._ ”

“Of course you would choose this one, you sap.” But Misha’s complaint was halfhearted at best, and to his credit he did listen without commentary (at least after the line ‘ _make the yuletide gay_ ’). Jensen, for his part, aptly refused to look at Misha while he was singing. He hadn’t sung in front of anyone that wasn’t family - Jared and Gen counted as family - since high school. He really didn’t need to look at his added pressure. When he finally ended on “ _a merry little Christmas now_ ,” he dared to look at his partner.

The man had a huge smile on his face, but it was soft and warm. There was another emotion there, too, but Jensen couldn’t place it.

For some reason the first thing that came out of Misha’s mouth was “You have a beautiful voice.” Jensen had to pause to make sure that was what he’d heard, and then proceed to thank God that in the dark room it was probably extremely difficult to see how red his face was.

“Just shut up and pick a song,” he muttered. It didn’t help that, after a moment of Misha just staring at him, the man slowly leaned towards him until their faces were only a few inches from each other.

“What are you doing?”

“A classic,” he smiled. He let the silence hang for a moment before opening his mouth.

“ _On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me-_ ”

“No!” Jensen was _not_ gonna put up with that song for five minutes. He lunged at Misha, but the other man had already pulled away and was getting to his feet.

“ _A partridge in a pear tree!_ ” He grabbed a flashlight from the pile and backed away from the blanket.

“ _On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me_ ,” Jensen was on his feet. Misha wanted to play? Well now it was on. “ _Two turtle doves_ ,” He grabbed himself a flashlight as well. “ _And a partridge in a pear tree!_ ” Misha took a step back. Jensen charged forward and his opponent swiftly moved to the side.

“ _On the third day of Christmas_ ,” Misha positioned himself so the table lay between them, “ _my true love gave to me_ ,” Both lunged the same direction, “ _three French hens_ ,” they lunged the other way, “ _two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree!_ ”

It was a stand off now. Jensen stood between Misha and the stairs: the man’s only escape. His partner was at this point less singing the song and more chuckling it. Jensen couldn’t help but smile back. Adrenaline was pounding in his ears. He was gonna win.

“ _On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave,_ ” Misha moved and Jensen ran to his left, but at the last moment he saw Misha’s evil grin. It was a fake out. “ _To me!_ ” Misha kicked the table at Jensen, the heavy metal screeching until it knocked into him. It was just enough of a distraction for the other man to make it to the staircase. “ _Four calling birds! Three French hens!_ ” Jensen was right behind him. The stairway was filled with the sound of their feet clanging against the metal steps and breaths desperate for air. Jensen had to keep his eyes down to make sure he didn’t trip. No matter what, he was gonna win. “ _Two turtle doves! And a partridge in a pear tree! On the fifth day of Christmas_ ,” Jensen could now see in the dim light the open doorway to the ground floor. Misha was just passing through. “ _My true love gave to me FIVE GOLDEN RI-_ ”

A large force jumping on his back and forcing him to the ground interrupted Misha. The man gave a long groan, but otherwise remained silent.

“I win,” Jensen said triumphantly between deep gasps for breath.

“I let you,” Misha replied in a similar state.

“Yeah, right.”

“Last time I checked singing Christmas carols together wasn’t a competition.” Misha used a elbow to push Jensen off enough so he could roll over. “I’m getting too old for this,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well,” Jensen beamed, “I gotta keep you ready for anything, Mish. Can’t have you quitting on me.”

Misha rolled his eyes, but still gave him one of those gummy smiles Jensen was now beginning to love. Somewhere in the back of his head he registered how he was practically laying on Misha and that he really needed to get up, but he couldn’t be bothered too.

He only got nervous when he noticed Misha’s smile wane. The other man was staring at something above his head. Jensen looked up to see, low and behold, some mistletoe crudely taped to the ceiling support beam. How clichéd was that?

Jensen gazed down at Misha. His eyes were blown wide and gaze locked on his lips. He wasn’t sure who moved first: Jensen would like say himself as he knew he leaned his head down, but he could feel the distinct pressure of Misha’s hand on his neck gently guiding him.

Misha tasted like the cheap coffee they’d been drinking and the sugary snacks from the vending machine and something that was just distinctly him. And, God, Jensen couldn’t get enough of the taste. Their movements were steady, but Jensen couldn’t deny the fire behind each of them. One of his hands moved to Misha’s cheek, the other gripping his waist. And for a moment, nothing else - not the cold, the dark, or anything - mattered because the world had shrunk down to just Misha and him. And it was utter perfection.

A pulsing vibration in Misha’s left pants pocket reminded Jensen of the need for air. He gently pulled away look admire Misha’s flushed cheeks and lips. The man reached down to grab his phone, glaring at the offending object. The exchange would have been cute had it not reminded Jensen they could have still been making out.

“What is it?” He asked breathlessly.

“Road maintenance just got here. We should be out in twenty minutes.”

“Awesome.”

“That means we only have twenty more minutes.” Misha pulled him in for another bruising kiss before Jensen pulled back slightly and rested their foreheads against each other. “You know, I only live a few blocks away. I know it’s short notice and a little forward, but would like to spend Christmas with me?”

Misha breathed out a soft laugh. “There’s nothing else I’d rather do. Now get back down here.”

Jensen would have laughed, but his mouth was suddenly occupied with another task, and, honestly, he couldn’t complain.

\----------

10:18 am

Mid morning sunlight was already seeping in from behind his sheer curtains. Jensen glanced over at the clock: after ten: he never slept in this late. He tried to get out of bed, but strong arms kept him in place. He turned his neck to see a mob of dark hair buried into his shoulder blade.

“Don’t move. We’re sleeping,” Misha grumbled.

Jensen chuckled. “ _We_ are, huh?”

“Yes,” Misha replied pointedly, voice still heavy with sleep. “So stay in bed.” He pressed a kiss onto Jensen’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Jen.”

He smiled and turned around in Misha’s arms to get a proper look at him. His hair was sticking up at every which way, his stubble was very apparent, and his eyes were slowly blinking at him. Jensen leaned down for a slow kiss, and, yeah, he could definitely get used to waking up like this.

He hummed against Misha’s lips. “Merry Christmas, Mish.”


End file.
